


The Rest of the Story

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Anger, Beating, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Loss of Trust, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Some Explicit Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:04:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year ago Neal cut his anklet and fled New York. Now Peter finds himself being drawn into the intrigue of saving his former CI from the clutches of an evil entity, who may very well kill the young con artist if Peter doesn’t intervene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to “A Gray Area” posted here last September.  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2333402

 

          Peter was home one evening watching the Yankees blow yet another game in the 7th inning when his phone chimed. Being preoccupied, he simply put it to his ear without checking the caller ID. The tinny, nasal voice on the other end of the connection startled him and immediately got his full attention. He hadn’t heard from either Mozzie or Neal in over a year—after the debacle when he and Neal had transcended a vicious argument by winding up in bed together. His CI had cut his anklet the very next day and simply disappeared off the ends of the earth.

          Over their years together, Peter had fallen hard for his criminal informant, but had kept those feelings a secret from Neal and everyone else, except his understanding wife. El knew how much Peter was in love with Neal. However, she was wise enough to know that the unique situation did nothing to diminish Peter’s love for her. She also claimed that it was obvious that Neal returned Peter’s affection. Granted, it would be a weird lovers’ triangle, but one that could work to meet everyone’s emotional and physical needs. She was very sure of that. Apparently, Neal didn’t perceive it in the same light after the impromptu liaison with his handler had transpired.

          Peter could swear that Neal loved him, too. The physical response he had elicited from Neal’s body proved that he reveled in Peter’s attention. And although conmen were supposed to be unreadable, Neal’s eyes simply couldn’t lie, even though he bravely tried to disguise the feelings that he harbored for Peter. In a misguided, altruistic attempt to protect his mentor, Neal fell on his sword and disappeared from Peter’s world. There were still wanted posters out for his arrest. Now, suddenly, out of the blue, Mozzie was calling him!

          “Suit,” began Mozzie in a hushed tone, “Neal needs you.”

          “Mozzie!” Peter finally managed to respond. “Where are you?”

          “Right now, that is not the most pressing question! At this moment in time, it is supremely imperative that you just listen and have enough compassion in your heart to help Neal. He’s in a really bad way—actually he may not survive if you don’t agree to try and help!”

          “Dramatic much, Mozzie?” Peter asked sarcastically. “I can’t do anything until I know what’s going on and where you and Neal are.”

          “Look, Suit,” Mozzie’s frantic tone went from hyperbole to soft pleading. “A really evil person has got Neal in his clutches, and he’s not going to survive much longer. I have the means to secure his release, but this monster won’t deal only with me, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else to help. Neal would probably disown me if he knew that I have turned to you for assistance. But if he dies, I guess that I won’t have to worry about him being upset with me.”

          After an ominous lull, Mozzie continued his beseeching, “Please, Peter. If you have ever cared about him, help him now.”

          Peter had never witnessed this frightened side of Mozzie, and it made his blood run cold. This was not some sort of con; this was a panicked little man, who, apparently, had nowhere else to turn. Mozzie was scared and that scared Peter, and the agent knew he was hooked.

          “Okay, Mozzie, but I refuse to do anything illegal.” Peter wanted that up front and center. However, Mozzie’s next comment threw him for a loop and began to make this scenario take on a whole other dimension.

          “Peter, I hope that your passport is in date. And you’ll need to take an emergency leave of absence from the Bureau of at least two weeks. I’m sure that you have enough clout ‘at the office’ to make that happen. I’ll call you back at this time tomorrow to make sure that you have everything lined up. Then I’ll give you the next steps that you’ll need to take. In the meantime, pack very warm clothes and leave your FBI credentials in a drawer at home.”

          “Mozzie, where will I be going?” Peter demanded.

          “Thank you, Peter. I just hope that we’ll be in time,” was the little bald man’s sign-off. Peter looked at the phone in his hand, the dial tone now mocking him. “Oh, Neal,” he mused to himself. “What have you gotten yourself into now?”

 

**********

 

          If truth were told, the FBI agent would always feel responsible for Neal’s current state of being a wanted fugitive again. If he had only managed to keep his lust under wraps, then Neal would still be at his desk in the White Collar office on the 21st floor of the FBI building. He wouldn’t have suddenly removed himself from the equation so that Peter wouldn’t derail his career and the marriage that Neal assumed he was putting in jeopardy. Neal’s good heart had always been his Achilles heel. Peter’s rashness of allowing his emotions to overshadow his intellect was his own weak spot.

          As Elizabeth listened intently to what Peter related to her, her brow creased in worry.

          “Oh, Peter, you’ve got to help him,” she whispered. “If you don’t, the not-knowing will kill you, and I simply couldn’t live with that either.”

          “I know, El.” Peter agreed. “I’ll start making arrangements tomorrow at the Bureau. I'll just give them a nebulous excuse about personal issues that I need to deal with immediately, and take an open-ended leave of absence. If you get any calls as to my whereabouts, just be vague.”

          El placed her hands on either side of Peter’s face and gave him an earnest little smile. “Don’t worry, Peter, I can play my part. Just concentrate on playing whatever your role requires. But be careful, please. This whole thing sounds so ominous. It seems that there are dangerous people involved in whatever this is, so please call me everyday with an update so that I know that you are safe. And take care of Neal, Peter. Someway, somehow, make this right. Please make this right.”

 

**********

 

          The next evening, Peter was told to go to the KLM airline counter at JFK airport. A first class ticket for Helsinki, Finland would be waiting for him. Mozzie would meet Peter’s plane when he arrived in the Scandinavian country.

          True to his word, the little man was waiting in the baggage claim area. There were lines around his eyes and an anxious air that immediately had Peter on edge. Plopping a furry hat with earflaps onto his bald head, he escorted Peter outside to short-term parking where a nondescript Saab was parked. He refused to be drawn into an explanation, saying all would be revealed during the next part of their journey. That “next part” consisted of embarking passage on the overnight ferry from Helsinki, across the Gulf of Finland, to Estonia.

          Estonia, a Baltic country located on the southern coast of the Gulf of Finland, was part of the Soviet Union until it declared its independence in 1991. The ferry would dock in the morning in Tallinn, the capital. The overnight ferry was quite a surprise for Peter, because it resembled a luxury cruise ship. It had sumptuous buffets, floorshows, and gambling casinos that kept the travelers busy while plying the waters of the sea. Peter and Mozzie eventually took up residence in one of the many bar lounges. Mozzie fortified himself with gin while Peter imbibed Scotch awaiting an explanation for this bizarre odyssey.

          According to Neal’s strange but loyal little friend, Peter’s former CI had been leapfrogging through Europe for the last year, picking up jobs that required his esoteric talents. Peter knew better than to ask what these “jobs” may have entailed.

          Mozzie went on to explain that Neal’s latest patron was a rather dubious assistant curator of the vast art treasures contained within the “Hermitage” in St. Petersburg, Russia. Viktor Maslov, having heard that the world-class forger was in Europe and available for hire, approached the talented artist with a proposal. The curator would clandestinely remove a Russian masterpiece from the huge storage vaults of the museum so that Neal could produce a reproduction. The forgery would then be placed back in archival storage and another masterpiece would just as surreptitiously leave for it to be replicated. All told, Maslov wanted Neal to create six such forgeries. They would replace the authentic paintings that the nefarious curator would sell on the black market to discreet collectors whose avarice compelled them to possess a treasure that would be for their eyes only. He promised Neal one third of the proceeds made from each sale. It sounded like a perfect, foolproof crime, with nobody ever suspecting that Neal’s almost perfect replicas were taking the place of the authentic ones.

          Everything went like clockwork, with Neal staying in the curator’s dacha in the countryside near St. Petersburg while he completed the work. The greedy collectors paid well for their ill-gotten treasures, and, at first, Neal received his portion. However, the tight network of serious art connoisseurs without scruples had flourished in the post-USSR climate, and the demands escalated. Neal was uncomfortable flooding the precarious market with so many recognizable Russian masters, and he told Maslov that their bargain was for six pieces and that’s all that he was going to finish. Maslov, equally as greedy as the clamoring collectors, saw future profits slipping away and refused to allow Neal to leave the dacha. He first tried cajoling the forger, offering a bigger cut of the profits, and then he started to threaten. That just made Neal more stubborn to reject any new alliance. That’s when things got ugly.

          “Maslov is a brutal son of a bitch if he doesn’t get his way,” Mozzie added worriedly. “I think that this maniacal Russian will eventually kill Neal, but first he wants to get his jollies by torturing him as punishment for his defiance. I’ve tried to broker his release, but Maslov isn’t interested in dealing with me, whom he considers a weak little nuisance not worthy of his time. After I spoke to you on the phone and knew that you agreed to help, I informed the Russian that a very powerful American with money to burn was interested in acquiring his prisoner. According to the backstory that I created, Neal had swindled you in the past and you are out for blood. You want him in the worst way and are prepared to pay for the privilege of making Neal sorry that he ever crossed paths with you. When you are finished with the forger, he’ll never be capable of even finger-painting another picture. And, to sweeten the pot, you are willing to pay a half million dollars to take the troublesome artist off his hands, no questions asked.”

          Peter’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline. “You have a half million dollars at your disposal right at this minute, Mozzie?”

          “It’s in Euros and tucked safely in my carry-on right here by my side,” Mozzie whispered. “Your part in this charade is acting tough and thuggish with an agenda. I’m sure you can pull that off after all your years perfecting the role of “The Man” at the FBI. Your kind is always trying to project an intimidating and superior air so that you get what you want.”

          At Peter’s frown, Mozzie hastily back-pedaled. “Look, Suit…..Peter…..I’m sorry. I’m at my wits end because my best friend—my only true friend—is in real, life-threatening trouble. I’ve been hearing things in some shady Russian bars, and it’s definitely not a pretty picture that Maslov’s goons are painting. I don’t want to think that even half of what they are boasting is true! Right now you are the last hope that we can get Neal back alive!”

          Peter was shaken to his core and acquiesced without much of an argument. He could not have Neal’s death on his conscience. And in truth, he loved the young rogue with a passion that rivaled the love and tenderness that he felt for his wife. To think of him hurt and suffering made the veteran FBI agent physically ill. Maybe Peter’s karma in this life was to always be chasing or rescuing Neal, he thought morosely. Actually, Peter didn’t want to look at his motives too closely; he just wanted to follow the base instincts of his gut. So, he listened attentively as Mozzie laid out the plan.

          Peter would become Martin Peterson, a powerfully connected underworld entity with a long memory and an ax to grind. Mozzie had a perfect passport at the ready with Peter’s new alias. “Martin Peterson” would go to great lengths to insure that his reputation for retribution was in tact in the criminal world that he inhabited. Neal Caffrey was unfinished business for him, a tarnish on his status that he wanted to make an example of to those who were watching. Mozzie had alluded to the fact that the half million dollars Peterson was offering should make the deal very palatable to the Russian. Actually, everything hinged on the performance that Peter could pull off the next day.

          “We’re doing this tomorrow?” Peter was surprised that things were moving so swiftly.

          “I told you,” Mozzie reiterated, “time is of the essence. St. Petersburg is only 225 miles north of Tallinn. It will be just a four-hour drive along the coast of the Gulf of Finland. I’ve rented a small house in Tallinn under another name, so, if we are successful in extricating Neal, that’s where we can hole up until he’s able to travel back to one of the Scandinavian countries.”

 

**********

 

          Neither man closed their eyes that night, and both were happy when the ferry docked early the next morning. Mozzie had a gleaming new Mercedes parked in the lot. Peter had to look the part of a very wealthy mobster, so price was no object. They stopped briefly at the Tallinn safe house so that Peter could shower and shave. When he exited the bathroom, he found a white silk shirt, tasseled Gucci loafers, and a hand-tailored, exquisite charcoal grey suit on the bed. To his amazement, all were a perfect fit. As he was attempting a Windsor knot in the Hermes tie, Mozzie entered, took an appraising look at Peter, and nodded his head in approval.

          “Appearance is everything in this business,” he stated emphatically. He then helped insert gold cufflinks into the French-style sleeves of the shirt, and handed Peter a heavy, gold pinky ring with some sort of complicated crest embossed on its face. Finally, he assisted Peter into a thick cashmere overcoat that left the FBI agent feeling like a character on an exclusive movie set.

          Then they made the four-hour road trip to the outskirts of St. Petersburg where Maslov’s dacha was located in a dense thicket and surrounded by an intimidating wrought iron fence. Mozzie handed Peter the valise containing the windfall of money. It had never left the little man’s side since he had obtained it. Hopefully, now in Peter’s possession, it would be the magic talisman that would secure Neal’s freedom.

          Peter assumed an arrogant persona as Mozzie scurried around to open the back door for him so that he could exit the car. As per the plan, Mozzie would then stay out of sight behind the dark-tinted windows. With a determined strut and arrogant swagger, the agent-turned-actor marched up to the front door. It wasn’t necessary for him to lift his fist to knock because his arrival had been noted by the tall, menacing Russian who swung the door open and scowled at him.

          Peter was far from intimidated and eyed him disdainfully as he spoke in a staccato fashion. “Martin Peterson! I’m here to see Viktor Maslov.” Then he raised his eyebrows and stared at the muscle-bound man with an air of expectation that seemed to have its own undercurrent of menace.

          The man opened the door a little wider to admit Peter, and led him to an open great room complete with a huge blazing fireplace and stuffed animal heads adorning the walls. Peter all but sneered in contempt at the décor, but deigned to extend his hand to the short, wiry person who was casually dressed in chinos and a turtleneck, and who identified himself as Maslov.

          “Comrade Maslov,” Peter began in a deceptively soft voice, “I have come a long way to finally meet you because I think that we can conduct a bit of business that will behoove both of us.”

          The Russian was taken aback somewhat by the actual arrival of this stranger whom a bald, little man had told him about recently. Maslov’s curiosity was aroused and got the better of him, as he boldly queried. “And who might Martin Peterson be?” Then he added perfunctorily, “Are you in the art world—a collector perhaps?”

          “My name means nothing to you right now, but I assure you that my intention will be of definite interest to you,” Peter said casually, but with an earnest look in his eye. “You might say that I am a collector of sorts. Right now, I am collecting on a debt that is owed to me. You see, it has come to my attention that you may be in possession of something that I want, and I usually get what I want!”

          The Russian began to feel uneasy. Perhaps one of the buyers of his illegally obtained masterpieces had opened their big mouth to someone that they shouldn’t have. Perhaps this man was really another potential buyer for stolen artwork, or he wanted Neal Caffrey to do work for him. Worst-case scenario was that he was an undercover Russian police officer. Maslov felt that he had to tread lightly. “I am merely an art curator, Sir, at ‘The Hermitage’ museum in the city. I possess no works of art myself.”

          Peter smiled maliciously. “Don’t let us dance around like your trained Russian bears. I have not the time or the inclination for games. I know that you have an artist in residence who has been methodically forging Russian masterpieces which you have smuggled out of your precious museum.”

          Maslov began to sputter his denial, but Peter cut him off. “I am a very influential man, my friend, and I am not without trusted, loyal sources who make sure that information of importance to me reaches my ears quickly. I do not care about your little scam or the pitiful profits that you garnered for those pieces. I am interested, ‘quite interested,’ actually, in the artist. You see, he and I became acquainted some time ago, and he was brazen and audacious to think that he was smarter than me. He disappeared before I could prove to him how dangerous and utterly stupid that line of thinking was.”

          Maslov attempted to stall for time while he tried to figure out if this man was truly as powerful as he appeared. “Mister Peterson, surely you must appreciate how utterly flabbergasted I must be at this moment. I have never met you, nor heard of you, and yet you arrive unexpectedly here at my house making unbelievable demands. That’s very off-putting, to say the least.”

          Peter leaned in like a cobra ready to strike. He countered softly, “It is because I am so resourceful, in a world that has been made very small by beneficial allegiances, that I can remain an unknown. I am invisible to all except for the very potent movers and shakers that make that world go around as per our wishes. I always get what I want, make no mistake about that. The only question that remains is whether we can come to an amicable business arrangement like gentleman, or…….?” Peter let his voice trail off.

          In truth, this man’s cold, almost lizard-like affect scared the hell out of the Russian. He, himself, liked to frighten and ultimately hurt people who annoyed him, but only when he had them at a disadvantage so that they couldn’t protect themselves. This man exuded danger and almost a kind of inherent evil; Maslov would never want to be on the receiving end of this man’s fury.

          “Perhaps we can discuss your desires over some vodka,” he remarked as off-handedly as he could.

          The FBI agent leaned in forebodingly. “This is not a social visit, Comrade. It is a business transaction only. I have other places to be shortly and, as we speak, my private jet is burning fuel while idling!”

          After that remark, Peter forcefully set the valise that had remained in his hand onto a small coffee table. “Inside this case is a half million dollars in Euros to compensate you for your loss. I’m sure a cosmopolitan man such as yourself may find good use for this little windfall. In exchange, you will present to me one ‘Neal Caffrey,’ intact and breathing, before I leave this room. If that is not possible in the space of the next ten minutes, I will be on my way and, make no mistake, your superiors at the ‘Hermitage’ will suddenly decide to begin an authentication process for all of the archival works in that vast storehouse of yours.”

          The two held each other’s eyes, until Maslov was forced to look away. “Perhaps we can carry out our business like gentleman,” he began in a placating manner. “Mr. Caffrey has been my guest these last few weeks, but, of late, has been a bit under the weather.”

          At Peter’s raised eyebrow and frown, he hastened to continue. “You see, he has become somewhat recalcitrant and remiss in fulfilling the terms of a business agreement that I had with him. As you have intimated, you have had previous experience with his lack of fidelity. Therefore, he had to be made to see the error of his ways. But perhaps your need for vengeance supersedes mine, and I would be happy to allow you to remove this thorn from my side.” After that declaration, Maslov nodded his head at the man who had admitted Peter to the house and who had remained standing in the background.

          “Will you be taking him back to the United States?” Maslov asked just to break the silence while they waited.

          “I never said that I was from the United States,” Peter answered. “I am a citizen of the world, a world that you definitely do not want to know more about if you are the shrewd and intelligent man that you wish me to believe.”

          Maslov wisely clamped his jaws shut until shuffling could be heard coming towards the main room of the dacha. Peter had steeled himself for almost anything that he might see, but it took his utmost sense of control not to react when he saw Neal. The young man was pale and gaunt, with cuts and purplish discolorations to his face, and a ring of bruises around his neck. He was clad in thin sweat pants and a V-necked t-shirt so threadbare that Peter could see the outline of his ribs beneath. Socks were the only thing on his feet. His hands were zip-tied at the wrists in front of him, and it was only the men on both sides of him who appeared to be keeping him on his feet.

          Peter walked slowly over to this man that he loved and carefully lifted his face to look into his eyes—empty blue eyes with pinpoint pupils. For a brief second, Neal appeared not to recognize who stood in front of him, but then a confused look crossed his face, his brow furrowing in concentration.

          “Peter,” was slowly emerging from the bewildered young man’s lips when the FBI agent stopped Neal from saying anything more by viciously backhanding him across the face. Unfortunately, in doing so, his heavy signet ring opened up a gash across the man’s cheekbone. Peter felt sickened by his own actions, and only just realized that Mozzie had given him the specific alias of “Peterson” as a cover if the usually astute conman spontaneously spoke without thinking.

          Temporarily putting his guilt aside, Peter continued the charade. “That’s right, Caffrey, ‘Peterson, Martin Peterson!’ As I was just telling your patron, this is a very small world. Did you have any doubt that we would meet again? Did you really think that you could just screw me and walk away?”

          It broke Peter’s heart to see the confused, hurt look on Neal’s face, as a trickle of blood made its way down his face. Then he thought over what he had just said to the young man and realized how Neal would interpret his anger. Over a year ago, the two of them had almost come to blows in Neal’s apartment, but hot, spontaneous, clandestine sex ensued instead. That ominous occurrence prompted Neal to cut his ankle as well as his ties to Peter. He then enigmatically disappeared into the ether in an altruistic attempt to protect his mentor from ruining his life. So the words that Peter had just uttered were a cruel parody of a real life event.

          Peter again stared at Neal, and right at this minute, Neal suddenly seemed incapable of even moving on his own. He was only marginally supporting any of his weight as he sagged in his captors’ grips. “Take him out to my vehicle and put him in the back seat,” Peter spoke to the two bodyguards as if they worked for him. With a nod from Maslov, they began to comply.

          When they had left the room, Peter demanded harshly, “What’s he on? His pupils tell me that it’s an opioid of some sort.”

          Maslov held up placating hands. “He tried numerous times to leave the dacha and we needed to keep him from trying again.” Then the Russian’s eyes took on an evil glint. “He is very beautiful, don’t you agree, Mr. Peterson. My two associates found him so, and a touch of morphine made him quite docile and a bit more receptive to their advances. I, myself, however, prefer that pretty boys put up a bit of a fight. It makes for a more vigorous and challenging evening’s pleasure.”

          Peter felt his skin crawl and fought down the urge to wrap his hands around this creature’s slimy neck and squeeze. His fingers would do more than leave a ring of bruises like those that he had seen around Neal’s neck. He would love nothing more than to slowly crush this man’s trachea as he struggled to take in even one breath. Instead, he strode over to the table upon which the valise stood, opened it unceremoniously, and dumped its contents on the floor at Maslov’s feet.

          “I think that will enable you to buy another suitable plaything for your bedroom,” Peter growled.

          Maslov held up his hands in a calming gesture and said hurriedly, “I’m sorry if I have insulted your sensibilities, Mr. Peterson. Caffrey belongs to you now to do with as you deem appropriate. But as a gesture of goodwill, let me give you a small parting gift, free of charge, for your very generous largess.”

          Peter tensed as Maslov opened the top drawer of a small, ornate escritoire that sat off to the side of the room. He took out a business-sized envelope that he handed to Peter. Inside was a pre-filled syringe containing a clear liquid.

          “This will take care of any trouble that you may encounter on your journey with him,” Maslov said with oily innuendo in his voice. “It may even make it a more interesting and pleasant trip for you.”

          Peter glared at this repulsive substitute for a human being, turned on his heel, and walked briskly through the door to his awaiting car. Apparently, the two henchman had followed orders and had deposited Neal in the back seat. They cleared a path quickly as the fuming FBI agent stormed from the house, got into the car, and slammed the door angrily. Mozzie wasted no time with hesitation and sped off quickly, snow spewing from the heavy car’s back tires as it hunkered down for traction on the road.

          When Peter looked over at Neal, he was huddled in a corner as far away from Peter as he could get. He had his head down, refusing to look up even as they hurried away. The conman was shivering uncontrollably to the point that his teeth were chattering. Mozzie had the heat on high and the car felt uncomfortably warm to Peter, who shrugged out of his overcoat and tried to place it around Neal’s thin body. But the young man startled fearfully and looked up at him with terrorized, wild eyes. He began to push frantically at Peter’s chest with hands that were still held tightly in plastic zip ties. Peter reached into his jacket and extricated his pocketknife, intending to free Neal’s wrists. When the young man saw the knife, he went berserk and managed to grab onto the door handle, get the door partially open, then attempted to throw himself from the speeding car.

          Peter desperately grabbed Neal’s shirt and valiantly reeled him back in as Mozzie fought the wheel of the Mercedes, which clipped a snowbank in an unplanned skid. Miraculously, the little man was able to again gain control of the heavy vehicle, and bring it to a slow stop. “Jesus, Peter! What’s going on back there?” Mozzie demanded as he caught his breath and turned around.

          Peter couldn’t answer right away, because he was engaged in a battle to control a manically writhing Neal who was fighting him with strength that he must have dredged up from the very bottom of his adrenalin-fueled soul. Neal surely thought that he was in a battle for his life, and he was not about to go quietly into that good night if he could help it. Eventually, Peter was able to subdue him somewhat by almost lying completely on top of the lean, restrained young man who was panting heavily.

          “Neal, Neal—take it easy. It’s Peter and I’ve got you. You’re safe.” Repetitive pleas went unheeded. Neal just continued to fight, almost succeeding in head-butting Peter. Even Mozzie’s cajoling could not reach the young man. He was somewhere in his mind that neither Peter nor Mozzie could go.

          In desperation, Peter told Mozzie to check his overcoat pocket for the syringe that Maslov had given him. “I think it may be morphine,” the agent grunted as Neal tried to bring his knee up into Peter’s groin.

          “You want me to inject something into Neal when we have no idea what it is?” Mozzie asked incredulously.

          “If you have a better idea to calm him down while he’s out of his mind, let me know soon before one of us has a heart attack!” Peter shouted, then groaned as Neal sank his teeth into the agent’s hand.

          “But what if the stuff in that syringe ‘stops’ his heart?” Mozzie’s eyes were wide and frightened.

          “MOZZIE!” Peter yelled as he frantically put pressure on Neal’s jaw with his good hand to extricate the one that was clamped tightly in Neal’s mouth.

          Mozzie was galvanized into action. He scrambled from the front seat, flung open a back door, and located the syringe in the envelope. With worried, angst-filled eyes, he gingerly injected the liquid into the fleshiest part of Neal’s upper arm, which was taut with the exertion of trying to wrap his shackled hands around Peter’s throat.

          It took about ten fury-filled minutes before the sedative started to take effect. Neal’s struggles became less fevered, and his muscles began to relax. Within fifteen minutes, he lay sprawled limply on the back seat, and it was only then that Peter gingerly sat up to catch his breath and nurse his own war wounds. Mozzie worriedly kept watching the steady rise and fall of Neal’s chest. He would never forgive himself if he had hurt his friend.

          With a sigh, Peter gently lifted a boneless Neal, wrapped his thick overcoat around him before tenderly cradling the unconscious man in his arms. This close to Peter, all of Neal’s bruises and contusions were even more horrendous to behold. The cut on his cheekbone that Peter had inflicted seemed especially damning to the agent. He was savvy enough to realize, without doubt, that he had also just imprinted finger marks around Neal’s upper arms that, in a few hours, would blossom into another lurid testament of abuse. He again felt physically sick to his stomach. Mozzie was quiet as they continued the four-hour journey back to Tallinn. Neither man knew the right words to say, so they both chose silence to mull over their tumultuous kaleidoscope of confusing and painful thoughts.

 

 


	2. The Long Journey Back

     Both Peter and Mozzie were beyond relieved to see the small safe house come into view on the quiet Tallinn street. Under the cover of darkness, Peter hefted the still unconscious man over his shoulder, carried him inside, and placed him gently on a bed in one of the back rooms. Then, and only then, did they dare turn on a light. Mozzie immediately hurried to fetch a plastic tub of warm water, soap and medical supplies that he placed on a small table by the bedside. As Peter helped him strip off Neal’s meager clothes, Mozzie sharp intake of breath spoke volumes.

     Neal’s torso was every color of the spectrum. The aftermath of the endured traumas was at different stages, vividly displayed in hues of crimson, yellow, green and dark purple that bordered on black. Mozzie gingerly traced the arched curve of each rib feeling for telltale grating of bone on bone. He concluded that several ribs were cracked, but not in danger of invading Neal’s lung fields. Neal’s arms were peppered with track marks, and Mozzie met Peter’s eyes briefly before darting away.

     Peter almost lost his composure when they dared to turn Neal onto his stomach. The bite marks, cuts and burns on his back and buttocks were livid, but the dried blood that streaked the backs of his thighs made the FBI agent grind his already painfully clenched teeth.

     “I’ve never in my life wanted to kill someone, Mozzie, but I can’t say that anymore. I really, really want to take that perverted bastard apart with my bare hands as I make him beg for his life.”

     “Then I suppose it’s a good thing that he is four hours away,” Mozzie answered in a hushed voice. “Focus, Peter! Neal is the priority right now, not him.”

     As Mozzie gently worked to cleanse the tortured skin, he added, “What you see on the outside will heal in time; it’s what’s on the inside that I am worried about at this juncture. From the numerous puncture wounds in the crook of his elbow, I would venture a guess that they have addicted Neal to narcotics to keep him docile. That uncontrolled shivering in the car was more than from the cold. He was jonesing for another fix. I’m going to take some blood and have it analyzed by an off-the-grid lab that I discovered in the city so that we know what we are dealing with, as well as sending off some extra blood for other testing.”

     Mozzie stopped for a minute and fixed Peter with a stare, daring him to look away. “He’ll need to be tested for STDs as well as HIV.” Peter just looked at Mozzie mutely.

     “Once I know what we’re up against, I have another contact that can get us some drugs to help with the detox process.” Mozzie continued in a clinical voice.

     “Mozzie,” Peter started to object. “He needs to be in a hospital setting for detox, or some kind of center that is licensed to handle drug dependency and withdrawal. You saw how out of his mind he was in the car. He could hurt himself or you.”

     “This is not New York or Hollywood, Peter, where starlets and millionaires go through withdrawal amidst luxury and pampering. Neal is a wanted man who needs to stay under the radar. He’s going to have to go through this cold turkey and it ain’t gonna be pretty. You don’t have to stay. You’ve done your part and I am forever grateful. Go home to Elizabeth and your nice, tidy little home with the garden and the dog. Go back to your White Collar job. I can bring in someone who can be discreet, after I grease their palm. It will be all the help that I need to get Neal and I through the process so that you don’t have to get your hands any more soiled by this mess than they already are.”

     “That’s just not happening, Mozzie!” Peter said adamantly.

     Mozzie eyed the FBI suspiciously. “Just what are your intentions, Suit?”

     Then, as an afterthought, the little man glared maliciously at Peter and snarled, “Are you simply planning on sticking around until Neal gets through this nightmare and is aware enough to know that you have contacted Interpol and arranged his arrest and extradition back to New York?”

     “You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you Mozzie?” Peter whispered back.

     “And you haven’t answered my question, _Peter_ , now have you!” Mozzie countered.

     “I’m here because Neal needed me, and still needs me. I haven’t thought any further than that. You can believe it or not, but it’s the truth, Mozzie! What I do know for sure is that Neal wouldn’t be in this horrible situation if he was staying out of trouble instead of making deals with the devil.”

     “Well you kinda have to fall back on what you know to get by when you’re evading the lawman who wants to put your ass back in prison,” Mozzie said bitterly.

     “Is that what you think, Mozzie? Did Neal tell you that he cut his anklet and ran because I was about to renege on our deal and send him back to prison?”

     “Neal didn’t tell me anything! He simply said he had to go, and where he goes, I’m right behind. However, I was well aware of your ‘holier than thou’ attitude when you found out that we arranged to get you released from prison under false pretenses. It seemed to offend your delicate principles of right and wrong. How tragic for you! I assumed that your conscience simply couldn’t allow you to look at Neal for one more day, and you were planning on sending him back to Sing Sing.”

     “Well, guess what, Buddy! You assumed wrong!” Peter was getting as agitated as his little adversary was.

     Mozzie was nonplused, but eventually demanded, “Then what, exactly, _did_ happen between you two that made him run?”

     Peter looked at the bald man and sighed. “It’s complicated, but what happened is between Neal and me, and if he didn’t give you a reason, than neither am I. With that being said, just get over the fact that you are stuck with me for awhile!”

     The two eyed each other like testosterone-fueled gunslingers at high noon outside of an old Wild West saloon. Mozzie was the first to blink. “Well, then, make yourself useful, G-Man, and help me bandage up these wounds and get him into warm sweats.”

     They did the best that they could with antibiotic ointments and gauze, and while Neal remained in his narcotized state, Mozzie brought a tourniquet, syringes and various vials to the bedside. He then withdrew copious amounts of blood to fill the tubes. Peter was amazed at the vast array of medical supplies that Mozzie had stockpiled. Apparently, after hearing the ignominious gossip in those disreputable bars in St. Petersburg, he had decided to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. The “worst” was what they were eventually going to find out.

     “He should be out for a while yet, so I’m going to take these blood samples to the lab,” Mozzie informed Peter. “You should be okay here by yourself with him. I won’t be long.” With a last concerned look at his friend, the loyal little man slipped out into the night.

     Peter sat in a chair next to the bed like a sentinel and stared at this wrecked young man that he cared for so much. It should have never come to this. Gently, he brushed the unruly hair back from Neal’s forehead and whispered, “You should have stayed, Neal. God, but I wish that you had stayed! You, El and I could have worked it out. You never asked if it was possible; you just assumed that it would all come crashing down. We could have built something, Buddy, not broken everything apart. Has your life always been such a path of destruction that you think that there is no hope for joy and peace? Has your past punished you so much that you think that you don’t deserve love? Well think again, Neal. I love you and so does El!”

     Peter’s voice had become thick with emotion, and tears were not far behind. He knew that he had to "cowboy up" and be strong for what was ahead. He never wanted Neal to see him as too weak to be depended on in the worst of times. He had to be Neal’s rock. Peter quirked a smile at the irony. The name “Peter” actually meant “rock,” if you looked up the derivation.

 

**********

 

 

     By morning, Neal started to come around. He startled when he saw Peter and a myriad of emotions flashed across his face, one after the other. At first, he looked puzzled, totally bewildered and incredulous. Then Peter recognized fear in those deep blue eyes. That expression of terror seemed to vacillate between distrust and hostility, and it was this that broke the FBI agent’s heart.

     Peter wondered how much Neal was remembering of their encounter at Maslov’s house when Peter struck him and shouted those damning words in his face. Did he recall the wrestling match in the back of the Mercedes when he fought like a demon for his life, and Peter had held him down? Was he remembering the torture that comprised his days and nights at the hands of an evil sadist? Peter just didn’t know exactly what was going on in his head, since Neal uttered not one word the entire day and into the night.

     Neal’s silence was unnerving to Peter. Mozzie was undeterred, however, simply chattering on in a one-sided conversation as he set about getting some soup into his patient, as well as tea and toast. The only sounds that came from Neal were the pitiful moans that fell from his lips as he cradled his broken ribs during the slow treks to the bathroom. Mozzie always motioned Peter away when he tried to help, managing somehow to support the weight of the younger man on his less than ample shoulders.

     Neal’s refusal to acknowledge Peter at all, and the spurning of his help at every turn cut deep into the older man’s heart. When he sat quietly at Neal’s bedside, his former partner simply stared at the far wall, declining to meet his eyes. The FBI agent who loved his CI again wondered what was going through the young man’s mind. Right now, he didn’t have the courage to ask.

     On the second day, Mozzie got a call on his burner phone. He listened, grunted and hung up. When Peter raised his eyebrows in a question, Mozzie muttered, “That was the lab. It seems that he’s dodged the bullet this time. All the tests came back negative.”

     Peter’s response was to expel a breath and put his head between his knees.

     They definitely weren’t out of the woods yet. Withdrawal started twelve hours later, and the tsunami of horrors wracked Neal’s fragile body for the next five days. Somehow Mozzie had obtained a supply of low-dose Valium as well as the drug Clonidine, which was suppose to inhibit the body’s response to the absence of the narcotic that it craved. Peter wondered if the adjunct meds were helping at all because Neal was suffering unbelievable symptoms.

     It seemed as if the battered man was in constant motion—shivering with chills and fever and then breaking out into cold sweats. Sleep evaded him day after day because of the severe muscle cramping and the spasms in his limbs. Peter watched helplessly as Neal keened and writhed on the bed. Mozzie tried to get him to eat, but the few spoonful’s of liquid came up almost immediately as Neal suffered through nausea and vomiting. They kept the room darkened and spoke in whispers, but both Mozzie and Peter were reduced to watching helplessly as Neal rode the crest of one painful wave after another.

     Eventually, an exhausted Mozzie allowed Peter to replace him at Neal’s bedside for brief periods so that he could get an hour or two of much needed sleep. At one point during day three of the suffering, Peter was alone watching Neal. Peter suspected that the debilitated young man had become delirious because he suddenly looked in Peter’s direction and pleaded, “Just let me die. Please, just leave and let me die.”

     Without thinking, Peter climbed into the bed beside Neal, gathered him tenderly in his arms and started rocking—the almost universal soothing response to stress. “You don’t mean that Neal. You know that you want to hold on to life. That’s why you fought like a tiger a few days ago in the back of that car. Somebody who was done with living wouldn’t have tried so hard to keep from leaving this earth. The Neal Caffrey that I know simply wouldn’t give up!”

     For the first time since the rescue, Neal looked Peter directly in the eye. “That Neal Caffrey is gone forever. He died weeks ago in that Russian dacha.” This forlorn response heralded gut-wrenching sobs, and Peter’s own tears began to course down his face to mingle with those of the man in his arms.

     Time inched along. The seventy-two hour point seemed to mark the pinnacle of the withdrawal process, and Mozzie and Peter watched with cautious optimism in the days that followed as Neal seemed to be able to relax just enough that he slept for short intervals. He was lucid for longer stretches of time, and finally able to keep down some fluids that Mozzie painstakingly dribbled into his mouth, one teaspoonful at a time. Peter marveled at Mozzie’s quiet dedication and unfailing patience as he watched from the doorway.

     Mozzie kept up a soft patter while Neal simply stared ahead with a blank expression on his face. “When you’re a bit stronger, mon frer, we’ll go someplace warm—Rio or Tahiti, maybe. I’m beyond ready to leave this Eastern European icebox!”

     When the little man happened to glance up and see Peter looming on the periphery, his face hardened defensively, defying the Fed to contradict him. Peter sighed. He sadly realized that he was the interloper, the enemy; maybe he always would be that in Mozzie’s mind. Peter was determined to pick his battles when the time came. Now was definitely not the time, so he slowly turned and left the conman and his loyal sidekick to their privacy.

     One evening while Neal slept deeply, Mozzie and Peter shared a considerable bit of vodka. Breaking the silence, Peter looked at the little man and smiled. “You are a very good friend, Mozzie. Neal is lucky to have you in his life.”

     Mozzie was feeling no pain at this point. His inhibitions were down and he was surprisingly forthcoming.

     “No, Suit, I’m the lucky one.” He paused for a few beats as his eyes took on a faraway look of introspection.

     “Growing up in an orphanage like I did, you get used to people coming into your life for a short while and then leaving without a backward glance. That included the other kids who considered me to be some geeky troll, and the revolving door of caretakers who never stayed long enough to care. You learn not to get attached to anything or anybody, or have hopeful expectations of a happy ending. It’s just the way it is and you accept it; people come, and people go — end of story. You just take one day at a time and hope that you can get by until you have to face the next day and the one after that.

     But when Neal walked into my life, it was all so different. He ventured in one day and he never left. He stayed and accepted me as I was, warts and all. He never tried to change me; he never criticized or had any illusions that I could or should be more. He didn’t expect or want anything from me. He actually liked me just because I was me, and he wanted to be in my life!

     So, I am the lucky one. He’s my entire family. I love him like the little brother that I never had, and I would give up my soul in a heartbeat for him. And I believe that Neal would do the same for me.”

     Maybe Peter had downed one too many vodkas as well, because Mozzie’s honest, open profession of affection for Neal prompted him to make a confession of his own.

     “I love him, too, Mozzie. But not like a younger brother or a wayward son. I _love_ him the way that I love Elizabeth. I think that is what spooked him into running away.”

     Mozzie froze with the glass of vodka halfway to his lips and stared at Peter myopically. He seemed to be trying to process what he had just heard, but his brain was telling him that his ears were deceiving him.

     “What _exactly_ are you saying, Suit? I’m slightly tipsy, so dumb it down for me a bit using Cliffs Notes, please.” Mozzie pleaded.

     Peter determined that the time had come to pick that looming battle. Taking on Mozzie regarding the FBI agent’s relationship with his CI was probably going to be the first of many.

     “I’m saying that I love Neal, and in my gut I know that he feels the same way towards me. Things happened between us the night that he cut his anklet and left. I think, in a misguided sense of chivalry towards my wife and concern for my career, he went on the run rather than talk out how the situation could be managed. He was always too impulsive for his own good, and just look where it’s gotten him.”

     “Wait, wait, wait…….” Mozzie stuttered. “You said ‘things happened.’ What exactly does that mean?”

     Peter lifted a cynical eyebrow. “You know what that means, Mozzie!”

     “But what about Elizabeth…….” Peter didn’t give the gob-smacked little man a chance to finish his question.

     “Knowing my wife as you do, Mozzie, can you honestly imagine that I would be here without her blessing and urging? She loves Neal, too, but never got a chance to tell him that before he took off.”

     Mozzie cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Forgive me for copping one of your catch phrases, Suit, but I believe that I will ‘trust after I verify.’ I’ll need to hear it from Mrs. Suit before I go all in on this!”

     “Fine, Mozzie. I call her every night to update her on Neal’s condition. You’re welcome to hash it out with her then,” Peter promised.

     So, later that evening, Mozzie took the phone from Peter’s hand and meandered into the kitchen for a length of time. When he eventually returned Peter’s cell, he looked the FBI agent hard in the eye and threatened, “If you hurt him, you will have me to contend with, and you will rue the day that you ever met me.”

     Peter nodded his head to the little man, who now looked as ferocious as a pit bull, and a tenuous truce was forged. It was harder to get Neal with the program, however.

 

**********

 

     Neal seemed to resent Peter’s continued presence and rebuffed him at every turn. At first it was a softly spoken, “Go home, Peter.” As Neal grew stronger, his words took on a more bitter and strident tone. “Why are you still here, Peter? Leave me alone! Go away!”

     Mozzie kept out of the mix. He had decided to adopt a “wait and see” campaign until the dust settled. He now doted less on his friend, and sometimes left the house for extended periods of time to give the feuding adversaries time to duke it out in their own fashion. He just ignored the offended, hurt looks that Neal sent him when he returned.

     Peter was as persistent as Neal was aggrieved. He moved a cot into the room next to Neal’s bed to replace the uncomfortable chair where he had previously maintained his vigilance. Neal huffed out an annoyed, “What? Did you forget the anklet and now have to improvise!?” Peter just ignored the outburst and refused to be baited.

     One morning during Mozzie’s absence, Neal slowly made his tenuous way to the bathroom for a shower. Peter hovered at his elbow, and this seemed to antagonize the conman to the point where he slammed the bathroom door in Peter’s face with a resounding bang.

     Peter’s eyes narrowed as he threatened, “This door better not be locked, Caffrey! Because if I hear a thud while you’re in there, I’m coming in, even if I have to break it down!”

     “Go to hell!” was what he thought he heard over the cascade of the shower.

     One night, Neal actually did lock Peter out of the bedroom. Mozzie saw Peter’s look of determined fury and his raised foot aimed at the handle, and quickly intervened with lock picks. “Traitor!” Neal shouted.

     Then there were the nights when the nightmares gripped Neal, and he cried out in panicked fear. Peter would climb into bed and hold his friend in his safe embrace. Although still rigid in Peter’s arms, Neal allowed this embarrassing closeness so that the fiends of his dreams could be kept at bay. They never spoke of it in the morning light.

     Other nights, sleep eluded the young man, so Peter would softly slide in beside Neal, and knead his back and shoulders until the tenseness eased and his breathing evened out. When in bed, Neal was always turned away from Peter while awake or asleep. Perhaps it was his unconscious way of not facing or acknowledging the comfort that the FBI agent was offering.

     One week slowly morphed into two. Neal’s contusions and burns were almost healed and the bruising was fading from his neck and torso. He was regaining his strength and endurance. Late one night, Peter felt him slip quietly from the bed and join Mozzie in the living room. Without remorse, Peter eavesdropped as Neal quietly appealed to Mozzie.

     “It’s time to go, Moz. Please get us away from here. I’m okay now to travel anywhere that you want to go. Just set it up. Please, Mozzie!”

     “Neal,” Mozzie said patiently, “You’ve got unfinished business to take care of first before you decide to run again.”

     “Do you mean Maslov, Moz? I don’t care about revenge. I just want to be far away from him and, well, ……. everybody.”

     Peter didn’t hear Mozzie’s response and speculated that it was probably just a cynical look that could be interpreted as “figure it out for yourself, Neal.”

     Peter heard Mozzie’s bedroom door close softly, but Neal did not return to the bed that night. Peter wondered if he had slept on the living room couch, or simply sat up for the rest of the dark hours examining his motives and feelings. So, that next evening, Peter was determined to push the envelope. They couldn’t go on like this forever. In the darkness, he spooned up close behind Neal and began to softly kiss his neck and the delicate, sensitive spot below Neal’s ear. All the while he was nuzzling the impassive man beside him, Peter’s hands were caressing Neal’s chest and the tautness of his abdomen. Eventually, he slowly moved one hand to the softness between the tense man’s legs.

     Neal’s back was as rigid as a board, and his body was definitely not responding in the slightest. Shrouded safely in the darkness, Peter murmured into the hair at the nape of Neal’s neck. “Let me love you, Neal. I’ve missed you so much; let me do this, please.”

     Eventually, he heard Neal’s whispered reply. “Peter, you would be making love to a hologram. The Neal Caffrey that you think that you love is gone. He ceased to exist in a Russian’s dacha and what is left behind is only an empty illusion. Something that is so flawed and hollow doesn’t deserve your affection or your time.”

     Peter took a breath before he answered. “You know that through the years I have been the only one who could find Neal Caffrey. Right now, that same Neal Caffrey is still here somewhere; he’s just temporarily lost. So let me do what I’m an expert at doing. Let me find him again.”

     Peter didn’t get an answer, but he felt the conman’s shoulders start to quiver and realized that he was silently crying. The gentle FBI agent refused to embarrass him by acknowledging his distress; he simply wrapped his arms a bit tighter around the bereft man until he fell asleep. Hopefully, this was the start of defensive walls being breached, and Neal coming to terms with what had befallen him.

     The next night, instead of whispering words in the dark, Peter switched on the small bedroom lamp and refused to let Neal turn away from him. He looked deeply into the young man’s eyes and quietly asked, “Why do you really think that I’m here, Neal?”

     After a brief hesitation, Neal said with a bitter edge, “It’s what you always do, Peter; you chase me and find me. Now you’re just waiting for the right time to drag me back to New York so that it completes the cycle, and you can brag that you’re 4 and 0 and your record remains intact.”

     Peter smiled ruefully. “Neal, you are not stupid, so I know that you really don’t believe that is why I am here. Spouting ridiculous rhetoric like that is misdirection on your part. It won’t work this time, Buddy. I want you to tell me the real reason that you think I am here, and why you persist in pushing me away. You claim that you never lie to me, so please don’t set a precedent now.”

     Neal tried to look away, but Peter reached out and held the young man’s chin in his hand and stared deeply into troubled blue eyes. “Tell me, Neal!” Peter was insistent.

     “You’re here because you think that I need saving yet again. You _think_ that you are in love with me, but I __think it’s all tied up in this Messianic complex that you have. Some people simply can’t be saved.” Neal stared at Peter, daring him to deny it.

     “Keep going, Neal, there’s definitely more that you haven’t addressed,” Peter prodded.

     “Fine!” Neal ground out defiantly. “You can’t do this to Elizabeth, Peter!”

     “Ah, now we’re finally getting somewhere,” Peter was almost smug.

     “First let me say that I don’t _think_ I am in love with you, Neal. I am quite sure about the state of my own emotions. I _am_ in love with you whether you are happy about that or not. And further more, I think that you love me, too, but refuse to acknowledge that fact because it would make you vulnerable, and you also think that it would hurt Elizabeth. That’s noble but unnecessary. Elizabeth knows what transpired in your loft that last night in New York. Maybe she was smarter than both of us were because she saw it coming years before we did. She is completely supportive and she would have told you so if you hadn’t decided to make a unilateral decision about our futures.”

     Neal looked anything but convinced.

     Peter glanced at his watch. It was a little past ten at night in Estonia. He quickly calculated the time difference and knew that it was early afternoon in New York. He punched in El’s cell phone number and hoped that she wasn’t tied up with a client and could talk. He was grateful when she picked up almost immediately. He flippantly explained that Neal needed his head realigned and handed the young conman the phone.

     Neal glared at Peter, but took the cell, slipped from the bed and left the room. Peter allowed him some privacy to process the earnest wisdom that, no doubt, his amazing wife would impart. El was a force to be reckoned with when she had a mission.

     Neal didn’t stand a chance. Elizabeth got right to the very core of the problem, systematically dismantling his arguments in a calm and compassionate manner. She was honestly persuasive, but her last words to Neal were prophetic.

     “You need love so that you can heal, Sweetie. Please don’t shut Peter out; let him in so that he can give you that. Let him love you, Neal, and make you whole again. Do it for yourself and do it for us.”

 

**********

              

     It didn’t happen that night or the one that followed. Peter waited patiently because after everything that Neal had been through, he was the one who needed to initiate any intimacy if it was going to happen at all. Miraculously, on the third night Neal turned to face Peter while they lay in bed and hesitantly brushed his lips across the agent’s in a soft kiss. Peter responded in the same tentative manner. They would need to take their time getting Neal back on an even keel.

     With gentle hands, Peter traced the planes of the young man’s face and kissed his eyelids and his lips. He sucked on Neal’s earlobe and nuzzled his neck. His fingers and lips found nipples and navel and tenderly teased the erotic hot spots. After prolonged foreplay, Peter pushed down Neal’s loose sweat pants and found him semi-erect. It was all the invitation Peter needed. He leaned down and took Neal into his mouth. He flicked his tongue over the glans, and then ran it tantalizingly down the underside of the shaft. He sucked and licked until he felt Neal’s cock fill to complete hardness. Then he pulled down his own pants, turned Neal on his side, and lined up their erections. Peter definitely didn’t want to mount the fragile young man and pin him with his weight. He didn’t want their lovemaking to remind Neal, even remotely, of his time with the depraved Russians in St. Petersburg.

     Face to face, Peter was able to circle both of their cocks with his hand. He rubbed gently at first, increasing the pressure, and picking up the momentum to match Neal’s accelerated breathing. As he worked their cocks, Peter let his tongue invade Neal’s mouth and the kisses became more intense. It wasn’t long before both men came almost simultaneously with copious ejaculate spilling over Peter's hands onto the sheets. Much to Peter’s delight, Neal ignored the mess and pushed him onto his back so that he could lay his head on the agent’s chest. With a contented sigh, he murmured, “Thank you, Peter,” and then seemed to drift off almost immediately into an untroubled sleep.

     In the succeeding days, the lovemaking followed a similar pattern of deep, messy kisses, delicate, erotic caresses, and sweet contentment afterward. Peter always gently pulled Neal on top of him or beside him, never wanting the traumatized man to feel confined or overpowered, feelings that he most assuredly had experienced while Maslov’s prisoner.

     One night in the soft haze of early evening, after Peter was successful in arousing Neal, the young man turned to face him and whispered, “Fuck me, Peter.”

     “Are you sure that is what you want,” Peter queried anxiously. “We don’t have to take it any further if you’re not ready.”

     “I’m sure,” was the succinct answer. Neal leaned over to the night table taking lube and condoms from the drawer. Peter assumed that Mozzie was responsible for the impromptu supplies. His former CI pressed them into Peter’s hands and reiterated, “Please, Peter, just fuck me now.”

     Peter wasn’t about to simply “fuck” Neal. He would take the process very slowly in an effort to build greater arousal and anticipation while providing Neal with the exquisite pleasures of foreplay. With copiously slicked fingers, he delicately worked a single digit into Neal, gently moving it around the tight band of muscle of the orifice. The conman went rigid for a minute, but forced himself to breathe deeply and relax the tension in his body. When Peter felt that the time was right, he introduced a second finger, and eventually a third, all the while kissing and nipping at Neal’s lips, tongue and neck. Finally, his attention delved lower and his mouth settled on Neal’s throbbing cock. He sucked in cadence to the in and out of fingers that were now massaging the prostate gland.

     “Peter, please,” Neal ground out between gasps as he tried to turn onto his stomach to afford the older man access.

     Peter took Neal’s face in his hands and whispered, “Stay on your back, Neal, with both eyes open and on me. I want to make sure that you know exactly who’s making love to you.”

     Blue eyes latched onto brown ones, as Peter slowly entered Neal. There was no frenzied thrusting, just soft strokes that were able to tantalize Neal’s core until he finally arched up to meet Peter’s every incursion. Peter let Neal set the pace that rapidly increased as the younger man reveled in the pleasure of their lovemaking. Tears at the corners of Neal’s eyes tracked little rivulets down the side of his face as he was overcome with emotion during his climax. It was good—it was finally all so good!

 

**********

 

Six Months Later

A private beach hideaway on the Isle of Majorca

              

     The sheets on the large king-sized bed in the spacious villa were wrinkled and twisted, with most of them spilling in a messy heap on the terrazzo tile floor of the bedroom. Just a few hours earlier, three people had finally managed to extricate themselves from that bed, after a lustful night of trying out various body configurations and unions that left them all blissful and sated. The trio only departed the softness of their nest because they were driven by hunger rather than inclination. Not surprisingly, after breakfast the enticement of the powder-white beach lured them into the warm sunlight.

     There remained a pile of dirty dishes and coffee cups in the kitchen sink, and toast crumbs on the table. On the glossy granite countertop, a two-week-old edition of the _New York Times_ lay folded open to a story from the International Editor’s desk. The article highlighted a recently uncovered scandal at the world-famous “Hermitage” museum in St. Petersburg, Russia.

     The paper’s foreign news correspondent had cited that “ _According to unnamed but informed sources, an internal audit of the vast storehouse of masterpieces at the esteemed Soviet institution had turned up a half-dozen forgeries. An anonymous tip had prompted Russian authorities to investigate and ultimately arrest the assistant curator, Viktor Maslov. Those same nameless Russian authorities also issued a statement that after an intensive interrogation, the curator had admitted to his guilt of replacing invaluable Russian art with forgeries that he had obtained illegally. Furthermore, the ignominy and remorse of the prisoner had driven the man to hang himself in his cell in Moscow before he was even brought to trial. Efforts by various reporters to obtain further information have gone unheeded.”_

         So it was “case closed”—end of story—at least for Maslov. However, the three people who were busy living and celebrating the moment on a Mediterranean beach hadn’t figured out the end of their story yet. They would in time, but for now, it was enough that the “rest of the story” was still a work in progress.


End file.
